Addiction is More Than Chemical
by Isabella Raven
Summary: An addiction can be to more than just a chemical. To a place, to a person, to an act, to a feeling. With one of his addictions being cut off, House finds another beginning to change.
1. Silence

Disclaimer: The story is based on characters and situations that belong to the various entities that created/produce/etc the show House.

Genres : Drama, Alternate Universe

Pairing: House/OFC

* * *

**Silence**

Nothing was said as she opened the door, blue eyes meeting her green. Nothing ever was.

She let him into the quiet of the front hall, even the faint sounds of the wind in the trees fading once the door shut behind him. None of the electronic hum of the hospital late at night, or the traffic sounds from outside his apartment. Just pure, echoing, ear-ringing silence.

He could swear he didn't even hear his own heart beat.

The path to the bedroom had been memorized, even though his visits were sporadic. He couldn't afford to come here too often. Or maybe he could. The silence felt almost as addictive as the Vicodin right now. Especially since he didn't have to worry about this being cut off.

Her fingers efficiently divested him of his jacket, and his shirts, sweat beginning to bead on his skin. It went beyond the silence, the lure of this place. A lrue harder to ignore when his leg _hurt_ and his Vicodin was gone, and Cuddy wouldn't let him have more. Warmth, silence, no demands that couldn't be met, no telling him that he could live with the pain, without the Vicodin.

No Vicodin, either, but nothing was perfect.

His cane hung from the knob of her bedroom door. His jacket landed over a chair, his shirts neatly folded on top. She stayed near him as he limped towards the bed, able to steady him if he started to fall, but not offering help. Only when he was sitting on the edge did she approach him again, kneeling in front of him, undoing belt and jeans, letting him slide them over his hips to drop to the floor.

She stood in front of him once she'd set the rest of his clothing with his shirts, her fingers poised on the first of the tiny buttons that held together her outfit. Scarlet and black, silk and linen, and he shook his head, reaching out to undo the buttons himself. He liked to unwrap his present himself. His gift for putting up with Tritter and Cuddy and Wilson and the trial, and the whole rehab mess.

A gift of silence and warmth and sex and pretending that he really didn't care beyond that.

She let the jacket slide off her shoulders when the buttons were all free, from neck to waist, elbows to wrists, blood red silk hissing as it fell. Sooty black linen, as fine and dense as the silk, clung to her curves, with as many tiny buttons down the back as the jacket had in total. And black silk pants were little better.

He always wondered why she wore so many buttons, though he doubted she'd really want zippers on the shirt. Not so close to her throat. No hands, no lips, nothing but the fabric of her clothing or her bed. He could understand it, at least a little.

After all, scars are always painful.

Her clothing remained in a crumpled heap on the floor as he twisted sideways on the bed, the matress thick and plush and barely shifting as she knelt beside him, her knees next to his left hip. He reached across, touching her shoulder, his hand skimming over her collarbone, dipping to caress the first swell of her breast.

She raised one hand to his jaw, rubbing her thumb over the stubble there. It dropped lower, fingertips tracing the lines of muscles down, pausing at the first dusting of corse hairs, a question in her expression. He paused, thinking, before lifting his hand to the back of her skull, leaning in to kiss her, hungry, his flesh already hardening with need.

He should have come back sooner.

They moved together, her keeping him balanced as he shifed over her, his good leg nudging between her thighs. He leaned down to kiss her again as she lifted her hips, letting him slide inside easily in one slow thrust. She was hot and slick, and everything he needed right now, fingers clutching at his arms, hips lifting to meet his rhythm.

He rolled without pulling free after he ejaculated, reaching down between them to circle her clit with his thumb, her own moisture mixing with his fluids providing lubrication as he brought her to shuddering orgasm, wrapping his arm around her as she curled against his chest, holding her for a long moment before she stirred.

This time, he didn't let her pull away as she always did.

She usually left him to shower alone; this time, he pulled her in with him, and she looked up at his face, tilting her head with a frown. He reached behind her to turn on the water, the sound of the spray breaking the silence, and she touched a hand to his face. Her frown faded as she smoothed her fingers over the lines in his forehead, the tiny line of pain etched between his brows.

Her arms around him he didn't expect, nor the cheek laid against his chest. He rejected intimacy from his friends, even the simple familiar hug, and yet this... didn't feel wrong. It felt almost comfortable, and strangely pleasent. He rested one hand against the wall to keep his balance, wrapping his other arm around her shoulders, just holding her, able even to forget the pain for a moment.

No one would believe it if they saw it. Good, then, that no one would.

He dressed slowly, reaching into the pocket of his jacket to pull out a handful of bills, setting three of them on the small table next to her bedroom door. He knew someone would ask him about where he was tonight in the morning. And would wonder, if they knew, what he spent a hundred-fifty dollers on in a night.

She let him out into the night, where the wind cut noisily through the trees, and his motorcycle sounded louder than usual after a few hours in the silence of her home. He settled his helmet on his head, his cane strapped across his back as he pulled away down the long driveway. He knew he'd be back, sooner or later. And he didn't plan to give up this particular addiction.

After all, how could you call silence a dangerous addiction?


	2. Mine

**Mine**

House froze as he turned from closing the door to the exam room, his eyes meeting the startled expression on a familiar face. Silence fell over the room, neither of them moving for a long moment.

She broke the silence first, a pen scratching across the pad she had in her lap, black ink curling in stark loops over white paper. Looking up again, she held it out, nodding her head at the writing.

_I didn't expect to see you here. I came because my normal doctor doesn't have hours today, and I can't trust the home pregnancy tests to be accurate. If you want to send someone else in, I can understand that._

House frowned, and shook his head, unwilling to break the habit of not speaking around her. He used the pen he had for writing on her chart to scratch a reply.

_No. Too many questions that I don't care to answer._

She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she shook with silent laughter.

House rolled his eyes. _Who's the father?_

Her laughter died, her gaze dropping to her hands as she fidgeted a moment, teeth worrying her lower lip. _You're the only man who's been in my bed in the last year._

House furrowed his brow, leaning on his cane for a long moment before replying to that. _You're not really a prostitute, are you?_

_I accept money for sex. But most of my income is from other sources._

_What sources?_ He glanced at her chart, raising an eyebrow. _Doctor?_

_PhD. Biology. Professor, Princeton University. I don't teach as much as I did before..._ She gestured at her neck, the scars hidden beneath a soft brown turtleneck. _You never asked, and I didn't feel the need to say anything. There were no expectations then, I still have none of you._

House scowled, the pen digging deeper into the paper as he wrote. _You think you're pregnant, and yet you expect nothing from the man you think is the reason? Why?_

_Because that isn't how it works. Sex for money. A child is an unexpected, but potential consequence, and one which I knew better the risk of. And so I expect nothing of you, except that you are the doctor who is supposed to order the tests to see if I am indeed pregnant. Nothing more._

House stared at her, uncertain what to make of her reaction. Or his own. She let him off the hook, even though she had no doubt as to the cause of her possible pregnancy, and yet he felt cheated by that. As if he wanted to take responsibility.

_I'll order the test._ He paused, the pen hovering over the paper. _I can bring it to you, instead of you coming back in, if you'd like._ He almost scribbled out the line, his hand resting on the pad a long moment before he handed it back to her. If he took the results to her, he might be able to indulge in his new addiction. Old addiction. Non-Vicodin addiction.

She smiled, nodding. _Two bills and the test results?_

_Deal._

He stepped out of the room a few minutes later with a tube of blood, and a troubled mind. Why did he feel the need to take responsibility for her state? Or was it for a blob of cells that could grow into a child with disturbingly familiar blue eyes?

* * *

"Where is Doctor House?" Cuddy stood in the door to the conference room, the irritation clear on her face.

"He said he had something to deal with, and he left early." Foreman shook his head slightly, a troubled expression on his face. "He's been real quiet today, after his last clinic patient. Did you try paging him?"

"He's not answering his pages right now, which is why I'm looking for him." Cuddy's frown edged from merely irritated towards a mix of anger and concern. "Did he say where he was going?"

"No. He took a patient's test results with him, though. Wouldn't say why."

Cuddy pressed her lips together a moment, and turned to go. Time to find out who the last clinic patient House had seen was.

* * *

House hesitated before knocking on her door, fingering the envelope in his hand. He had looked before sealing them in with the fifties, and that troubling sense of responsibility had surfaced again for a long moment.

She beckoned him in when she opened the door, the silence surrounding him once the door shut. It didn't feel the same anymore. Still welcome, still wanted, and yet a trap more than an escape. How could he want to walk into a trap, even one of his own making? His and hers.

He set the envelope on the table beside the door, and when she reached out to remove his jacket, he caught her hands, not quite looking at her. Even if she didn't sense it, something had changed. A change he didn't know whether to welcome or curse. Or changes, he supposed. He knew her name, beyond her screen name. He knew she wouldn't be alone in the house in nine months. He knew the silence would be broken, his addiction changed, perhaps taken away.

She tugged her hands free of his, and he felt her fingers on his cheek, focusing his attention. A small furrow appeared between her brows as she studied his face, trying to read him for a long moment before stepping back. A questioning expression came over her face, her fingers fiddling with the bottom edge of the brown turtleneck she wore.

House shook his head, hobbling over to the bed to sit on the edge, resting his cane beside him. She followed, standing in front of him with her head tilted to one side, confusion written across her face. This wasn't how it went, not in the past. But things had changed.

He rested a hand on her still flat stomach, his gaze fixed on the spot as if he could see through layers of muscle and tissue to the growing blob of flesh nestled safely inside. He looked up to meet her gaze, mouthing, "Mine." He still needed the silence, craved it more, perhaps because he knew it would end.

She nodded, one hand covering his, the other gently touching the side of his face. He let out a troubled sigh, the sound loud in the quiet of the room, and she wrapped her fingers around his hand, lifting it to her lips to kiss the palm. Kneeling, she rested her cheek against the knee of his good leg, looking up at him with a patient expression. Whatever the next move, it was up to him.

House looked down at her a long moment before nudging her away slightly, to give him room to slide down to sit beside her on the floor. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close, her head resting on his shoulder.

Here was the ultimate puzzle, to figure out what had awakened the sensations that troubled him, and why he let her get so close to him. Why he allowed the intimacy beyond just the satisfaction of physical need.

* * *

A sharp rapping on the front door jerked House out of a doze, and he winced as his leg announced he'd been too long in one position. The warmth at his side was unfamiliar, and he glanced down, remnding himself of the strangeness of this encounter with his addiction. She frowned sleepily as the knocking on the front door repeated, her brow furrowing in puzzlement.

He let her move away, reaching for his cane to struggle to his feet, waving her aside when she offered her hand to help him. She waited for him to get to his feet before leaving the room to answer the door. House followed slowly, stopping before he came into sight of the front door, listening with a frown on his face.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Doctor Murphy. Is Doctor House here?"

Cuddy.

House scowled, irritated that his boss had followed him to his addiction. Had invaded, and spoiled the silence. He limped forward, meeting Cuddy's irate gaze with a sardonic smile, and his own anger. He stepped outside, forcing Cuddy to step back, or step aside, looking back to meet green eyes shortly before the door shut. She'd leave him to handle Cuddy, and explain to her why showing up here was a Very. Bad. Idea.

He rounded on Cuddy as soon as the lock clicked into place, glaring at her. "You didn't need to follow me out here, Cuddy."

"What are you doing here, House? She's a patient!" Cuddy crossed her arms, meeting his glare with an angry glower of her own.

"Only because she couldn't get a hold of her usual doctor." House grabbed Cuddy's arm, pulling her away from the closed door, not wanting the arguement to filter inside, and disturb the quiet he had come to crave more than it already had.

"That still doesn't explain why you're here. It's dubious ethics, even for you."

"Too many questions, Cuddy. None of which I'm inclined to answer." House kept herding her back towards the driveway.

"She came in for a pregnancy test. Foreman said you had..."

"Because I said I'd bring them to her so she didn't have to come back to the clinic to pick them up." House gritted his teeth against the pain in his leg, hobbling as fast as possible to Cuddy's car. "I'd tell you why, except then I'd have to kill you. Patient-doctor confidentiality."

"What is going on, House?" Cuddy wrenched her arm away from his grip, her tone demanding. "You're acting like you actually care about a patient for once."

"Maybe it's not the patient that I give a damn about." House leaned on his cane, ignoring the sweat starting to gather from fighting the pain. "I happen to enjoy the silence up here."

"You're saying you're doing this to protect your own interests? What did you do, House? Knock her up?"

"Not telling." House started to limp towards his motorcycle.

"House!"

He stopped, turning to give Cuddy another glare. "Just because you bailed me out of trouble, and saved my career doesn't mean you're entitled to dig into my personal life."

"If it could effect the hospital..."

"It doesn't." House cut her off with a snap, turning back to his motorcycle. "Unless you keep pushing to find out what's going on. Doctor Murphy happens to enjoy her privacy."

"Fine. This isn't over, House." Cuddy yanked open the driver's side door to her car. "And if she comes back to the clinic, I'm having someone else take her case."

House tightened his grip on his cane, knowing that once someone else took the case, it wouldn't be long before someone drew the connection. Which meant she couldn't come back to the clinic, or he had to tell Cuddy the truth before it got ferreted out by someone else. "Cuddy."

"What?"

"If she comes back to the clinic, and you take me off her case, someone is going to wonder why." He looked over again, his anger still bubbling near the surface, overlaid with resignation.

"Then give me a reason not to."

Houes sighed, glancing over Cuddy's shoulder at the closed door. "Because her child is mine."

Cuddy closed her eyes for a moment. "Why didn't you hand her chart off to someone else in the first place?"

"And explain it how?" House sat down on his motorcycle, slipping his cane into its place across his back. "That I can't take the clinic because I pay her for sex?"

"You don't have a problem with spreading rumours about other people's private lives. What makes this so different?" Cuddy shook her head. "You're not making sense, House."

"Not even to myself. Just don't pass her off to someone else if she comes back to the clinic."

"I'll think about it."


	3. Tiny

**Tiny Banshee**

The page came in the middle of haraunging his ducklings about their ideas on how to diagnose the latest patient. The price of Cuddy keeping his secret. Letting her get involved. And she kept his ducklings, or anyone else, from finding out about his addiction, about the blob of cells that had grown and changed, and made havoc of the welcoming silence of Murphy's home.

He didn't bother to look for an excuse to ignore the page. Just a cutting remark, and orders for the ducklings to figure it out. Not telling them that they would be on their own for the rest of the day. That they'd be better off not expecting him to be at anything less than his worst for weeks, if not months, after this.

He knew where to go without even stopping in Cuddy's office, calling her only just long enough to tell her to keep his ducklings from finding him, then turning off his cell phone. He still hadn't solved the puzzle that had shown up nine months ago, and never gone away. That niggling sense of responsibility, and that craving for more than silence and sex. For intimacy. Not the romantic crap that Cameron would like - favorite colors and sappy movies and expensive dinners. Just the intimacy of knowing he would wake up, and he wouldn't be alone.

She'd chosen a birthing clinic near a hospital, because she didn't want the antiseptic atmosphere of the hospital itself, but her doctor - and he - had been concerned. Not that he told her. Disconcerting enough to realize he cared that much; she didn't need to know about it. Seeing as she agreed with her doctor readily enough.

A half-dozen broken speed limits, two ignored stop signs, and several miles later, he pulled into a parking space, hobbling into the center. He hadn't meant to push the limits that much, just to get here. Or maybe he had. It didn't really matter right now.

She was walking, pacing, a line between her brows that only faded a little when she saw him, a faint smile tilting the corners of her mouth up. He leaned against the wall nearby when she waved off the offered hand, continuing to pace.

Her doctor arrived a few moments later, raising an eyebrow when she saw House. As if she'd expected he wouldn't come when paged, told that Murphy was in labor. That his child, _his_ child, was about to go through the first traumatic experience of its life. He hadn't even wondered yet if it was male or female. Just the thought of it being his was enough to unsettle him, even now.

He had never thought about procreating. Or becoming a father. How unsettling it would be to watch a woman's pregnancy progress, knowing that he had a part in the process. How nerve-wracking the wait for her labor to proceed to the inevitable end. Or how a tiny, squalling creature could captivate the attention of even a cynical, sarcastic cripple. For just a moment, at least.

Even with the concerns, it went smoothly, and her doctor said they'd only have to stay the night. House looked down at the now-sleeping infant, a frown furrowing his brow as he studied her. A howling banshee soothed by food, and the warm presence of her mother into sleep. Aisling.

His daughter.

House looked up at the sense of being watched, meeting her tired gaze, and the amused smile. She reached for her ever-present pad of paper, and he hobbled over to see what she was writing.

_You look like someone hit you between the eyes with a hammer._

He raised his eyebrows, tilting his head, and plucked the pen from her hand to write a reply. _She howls like a banshee. And she looks too tranquil when she's sleeping. She's probably plotting to wake everyone up at an unholy hour of the morning._

Murphy rolled her eyes. _That's what babies are supposed to do. At least according to anyone I know who has had one._

_Plot the destruction of the world through sleep deprivation?_

_Wake you up at all hours, eat, dirty their diaper, and be cute enough to get away with anything._

House snorted, rolling his eyes. _They can't get away with everything._

_Perhaps not._ She tapped the pen on the pad a moment. _You look tired. Go home, sleep. I'll still be here when you wake up. So will Aisling._

_Your car?_

_With my TA. She drove me here, and is coming tomorrow when I text her._

House nodded, hobbling over to look down at Aisling once more before making his way out of the clinic into the chill of the late October evening.


End file.
